


Red, White, Black, Grey

by WendyNerd



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: Bisexuality, F/F, F/M, Gen, Legit bisexual, Sexual Tension, Two bisexual ladies, Unbeta'd, also political tension, also there's a sausage among the buns, because I'm still a Jonsa slut, powerful ladies being powerful and sexually confused together, sexual awakening, so there's something for everyone, wlw
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2017-01-21
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-09-18 22:43:55
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,258
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/9406049
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/WendyNerd/pseuds/WendyNerd
Summary: Queen Daenerys of Westeros, Mother of Dragons and Princess Sansa of Winterfell, Unofficial Queen of Winter, come together in the midst of political tensions and the approaching War of the Dawn. King Jon the White Wolf, King in the North, is caught in the middle.Not one of those fics that promises femslash and gives you slight references within an ocean of maleslash and/or hetero. The entire first, giant chapter is ALL the lady-on-lady sexual tension.





	

**Author's Note:**

> Unbeta'd and posted to distract everyone from, uh, this shitty day.

Noise is something Daenerys Targaryen knows how to make, even without her dragons. Sansa hears the crunch of her feet hitting snow well before the Dragon Queen makes it to the clearing of the Heart Tree. She’s able to pick up other things to help her narrow down the identity of the visitor before turning around and seeing her. There’s the pace: Not quite the run of someone wishing to report an emergency, but urgent stride of an impatient figure. The crunch isn’t too loud, so the person approaching is on the small side. Likely a woman. It’s not Arya, who has learned to move in utter silence.

Then there’s the tired, frustrated breathing she soon hears. They’re the gasps of someone exhausted by trudging through the snow, unused to it, unskilled. Not a Northerner. Even Sansa, who was born and raised amidst the Long Summer, who had reacted with shock at the severity of the blizzards so far, figured out how to move across the deeply blanketed grounds with manageable pace and comfort pretty quickly. It came naturally to her.

She’d picked it up after walking just a few yards in what was a deeper blanket than this. But this person seemed to still be having trouble all the way from the Keep or walls to the center of the godswood. At one point, she hears a yelp and the sound of a greater weight toppling into the snow. Sansa rises at this, but then sits again upon the low branch she favors when she hears the person start to walk again.

So, a small, impatient foreigner. Sansa keeps her eyes on the face of the gods carved into the weirwood trunk. Someone from Daenerys’s court, and someone who had not been a slave. Despite the pride and enthusiasm that Daenerys’s various Free Men exuded in regards to their liberated status, many of them still had a certain meekness to their gestures. Aside from her soldiers, which walked with a military-precise march, they tended to step carefully, approach carefully, and display a patience in all they did and said. This person was neither soldier nor slave, they were used to commanding attention.

She considers Danearys, but one thing makes her doubt this: this person is alone. She’s not once seen the Mother of Dragons alone. The Targaryen Scion always has at least two people with her. And even that’s rare. Her herald and Chief General, two ex-slaves with the Summer Islander coloring, a man and a woman, are always with her. And, most of the time, so are several other people. Advisors, attendants, and/or curious gawkers.

Sansa herself had provided Daenerys with a personal Northern Maid/Guide, Shari, to lead her about Winterfell and its lands, educate her on Northern customs, even help prepare her for the very same. Also, Shari was to be a spy, something which Daenerys was almost certainly aware of, given how the woman seemed to guard her tongue despite graciously accepting Shari’s “assistance.” Shari, to her credit, didn’t seem to let Daenerys out of her sight, even if her long hours gleaned little.

It occurs to the Princess of Winterfell that perhaps Lord Tyrion has arrived early from King’s Landing, and has come to pay his respects. But no, she’d have been alerted if he had.

Possibly, it’s some Westerosi attendant of Daenerys, or maybe even one of the non-Northern members of the Stark court.

Despite her doubts and imagined options, Sansa is not surprised when a familiar clearing of the throat reaches her ears and the platinum-haired queen’s figure greets her eyes when she turns.

She’s a bit impressed to see Daenerys here, apparently without anyone following. Had she managed to give others the slip, or had she furiously insisted to be left alone for this venture?

Of course, it’s possible someone has followed her without either of their knowledge, someone with enough stealth to avoid detection entirely. Sansa isn’t sure just how skilled Daenerys is at picking up such things, but Sansa has a talent for it. Granted, the noise Daenerys makes herself would certainly help mask any concealed follower.

Regardless, Sansa is impressed, regardless of how Daenerys came by this apparent solitude. It meant she was cleverer than her people, or that she commanded enough respect from them to make them at least pretend to leave her be when she wished it. Such a thing means something, especially for a young, female ruler.

In the fortnight since her arrival, Daenerys has indeed displayed signs of many admirable traits.

She’s displayed less admirable ones as well.

Sansa rises from the branch, smiles her courtly smile, and nods her head. “Your Grace.”

She doesn’t curtsey. Sansa doesn’t curtsey to anyone anymore unless they’ve bowed first. So, really, only vassals and peers who have already made a gesture of respect. She was willing to do so for Jon. He is, after all, her king, but her cousin made it clear that exceptions in protocol were to be made for her and her siblings.

Daenerys is a queen, but not of the North. She’s not Sansa’s queen. Jon’s aunt arrived on Westeros’s shores well after Jon was crowned, after the North re-asserted its independence from the Iron Throne. And though many now predicted that the North, Vale, and Riverlands would be re-absorbed into the domain of the South, it hasn’t happened yet.

Jon is King in the North, yes, and yet he does not possess all the authority within their family. Sansa is not only his chief advisor, Regent, and heir presumptive, but she is his chief vassal. As Lady of Winterfell, she rules and owns the castle, the capital of Jon’s realms, all of the surrounding lands. Her holdings also the county and castle, long under Stark control. She is the Head of House Stark, which grants her full authority of those holdings. As Ramsay’s widow, she also inherited the Bolton holdings upon killing him, as he was the last of his dynasty. Both as prior rightful liege of House Bolton and widow of the final lord, she now holds the Dreadfort, Ethering, and all its lands in her own right. She commands the vassals of both Houses.

The combination of her royal title, peerage status, popularity with the and personal relationship with the king gives a very unique status. She is her one of the most powerful people in the North. her only rival being Jon himself. She’s nicknamed the Queen of Winter.

And the rules of hospitality also require a degree of respect from a guest to her host. Daenerys sleeps under her roof, eats her food, walks her halls, and has sampled bread and salt with her. Sansa’s as much the Dragon Queen’s host as her cousin.

So Sansa doesn’t curtsey. She shows Daenerys all the due respect of any foreign prince or lord. Any guest, especially one of such high station. But she does not express any subordination. And though she’s not made her views on Daenerys’s authority explicit, she feels pride in the implications of many of her actions and gestures. She feels it now, as she politely nods her head, as if she were speaking to an equal.

“Your Grace,” she says softly, pleasantly. She takes a moment before lowering her rabbit-fur lined hood. The order and pace in which she does these things is deliberate. The lack of immediacy with which she lowers it does not communicate deference. But it’s just quick enough to show some respect. And it allows the sunlight to catch the sheen of her auburn hair and brightness of her blue eyes. “This is an unexpected visit. I was under the impression you worshipped the Seven.”

 _Tell me why you’re here and potentially interrupting my prayers._ Sansa honestly doesn’t mind the interruption, but letting Daenerys thinks she does may shift the Dragon Queen further off balance.

Daenerys has an incredible presence and stunning, unmatched confidence most of the time. Rarely does the facade of immovable, unbreakable, fierce Empress break. Sansa admires and envies this. It’s not something she herself can properly exude. She can seem immovable, stunning, and strong in her own way, but she is unable to come off as fierce or intimidating.

But now, her royal guest is winded, aching, frustrated, damp, and bedraggled from the effort of trudging through this snow. And Sansa needs to take advantage of this to the greatest possible extent while she still can.

Though there are few barriers that still exist socially between a monarch’s entitlement and personal privacy, worship was one of them. Even in King’s Landing, Sansa was left alone in the Godswood. That was one thing even the most powerful feared to trespass on. It was a misstep in anyone’s eyes to intrude upon a person when they prayed. And though Sansa will not accuse Daenerys of this directly, her words are enough to imply this.

Daenerys lowers her own hood, though a fur hat sits atop her head under it. Her violet eyes flicker. “I’m sorry to intrude. Tyrion told me you come here to be alone.”

Sansa does not give Daenerys the reaction she’s clearly looking for— surprise, concern, defensiveness. The Dragon Queen, far from unsettling her, actually gives her information. Tyrion had been counseling Daenerys on her, personally. And clearly the farce of their union is not something Daenerys is afraid to broach or use.

Sansa widens her smile. “Well, that’s what I went to the King’s Landing godswood for. It was the only area of my prison that allowed me any privacy. But that’s where any sacredness on that land ended for me. I didn’t feel the presence of my family’s gods there. Praying to them felt pointless. It was too corrupt, too southern, too infected. Winterfell is a different case altogether. She gestures to the face carved into the trunk. “Here, I speak to the gods. Sometimes alone, sometimes not. I came here alone today, intending to worship that way. But I’ve knelt before this tree and prayed with my family, friends, and other worshippers of the old way as well.”

The Dragon Queen clears her throat. “I’m sorry to disturb you.”

“Don’t be. Even at a holy site, I am not easily disturbed. I am glad to see you take an interest in this place. Have you come to learn more of how we worship? As I once told Lord Lannister, I’m afraid there’s not much to learn. No rituals or sayings. Just simple, silent meditation and communication. You may find it dull.”

_You can’t scare me. Tell me why you’re here. Remember you’re a stranger. And I am not afraid to discuss Tyrion._

Her guest clears her throat. Disappointment briefly affecting her exquisite features. Sansa observes this. Though Daenerys’s persona was unique and striking, her facade is not perfect. She does not hide her true emotions quite as perfectly as Sansa. The Lady of Winterfell takes some solace in that.

“I had thought to meditate,” Daenerys replies, “And I don’t need pretentious rituals to appreciate the qualities of another’s faith, I assure you. But since you’re here, and you also mentioned communication, would you mind communicating with me?”

Sansa resists the urge to narrow her eyes and keeps her tone steady when she answers, “Would you like me to tell you the legends of how these woods came to be? While there is no scripture or dogma, there is history.”

“I would,” the queen says neatly, “Especially from you. My nephew says you’re a fine story-teller. But there are other topics I wouldn’t mind broaching, now that we finally have a chance to speak privately.”

The Lady of Winterfell widens her eyes and adopts a concerned voice. “Oh, Your Grace, if you wished to speak with me alone, you need only ask. I would gladly take a private audience with you! If only I’d known!”

Daenerys almost completely conceals her discouragement. “I know you’re a busy woman.”

“No more busy than the Mother of Dragons. If you were to make time for me, I would not hesitate to do the same for you. I’d consider it an honor.”

“Well, let’s make time for another now.” Daenerys glances around awkwardly, her eyes fix upon Father’s bench. “May I sit?”

Sansa gestures to the seat graciously. “Of course.” She makes a point of brushing snow from the surface as Daenerys makes her way to it. Then she perches herself upon the low branch again. The other woman looks at her curiously.

“You cleared the snow around the bench,” Daenerys remarks, “Yet you sit upon a branch. Why?”

“I’m not the only one who visits this place,” Sansa answers, “But honestly, I’m not sure. I was never one for climbing trees as a girl. But…” She sighs and runs her hand along the branch. “I suppose I feel embraced here. Embraced and supported by the tree. When my siblings and I were small, Father would take us out here to pray, and he’d often lift us onto this branch. I fussed a bit. I was used to the Sept, with all its rules, it’s protocol, it’s sacred rules about blasphemy and behavior. But Father would laugh and remind me that those were the New Gods, and that the Old Gods had no such laws. We preserve the Heart Tree, yes, but there’s no disrespect in touching, in sitting, in taking shelter from it. This tree is a constant. It’s the Heart of not only these woods, but Winterfell itself. It still holds me up, still embraces me. It makes me feel more myself, more at home.”

Daenerys’s mouth falls open. “That’s lovely. Thank you for sharing that with me.”

“You’re welcome.”

There’s a brief silence. Sansa gazes at the queen, who seems unaffected by this, lost in her own thoughts. Daenerys was likely used to being stared at. It didn’t trouble her. She relaxes, staring at the red leaves of the weirwood that still sprout in the dead of winter.

She’s one of the most beautiful people Sansa has ever seen. More beautiful than Cersei when Sansa first met her. More beautiful than Margaery. More beautiful than Jaime Lannister, Joffrey, even Loras Tyrell.

There have been three people who have ever looked as lovely to Sansa. Jon, Arya, and Brandon, at their respective reunions. Despite Jon being scarred, pale, and hardened from the rough ice of the Wall, despite Bran’s wind-chapped skin and limp legs, despite how Arya was considered a disappointment in the looks department throughout their girlhood, they were the most beautiful people Sansa had ever seen.

Daenerys’s magnificence does not strike Sansa’s heart the same way. But it does strike her. Her waves of silver-gold hair. Her pouting lips. Her clear skin. Her large, round eyes. Her elegant profile. Her confidence and aura, which ooze with authority and security, with faith.

She’s perhaps the first woman who has made Sansa feel eclipsed in the beauty department. Though Sansa was awed by Cersei and Margaery, she’d never felt outdone by them in natural beauty. Elegance, wealth, and brains, yes. But she never felt that they were prettier than her.

Sansa doesn’t resent Daenerys for this. Not directly, anyways. She can’t, though she feels she should. The way Jon sometimes looks at his aunt sometimes should inspire fury and dislike. But it only ever instills in her sadness and an unfamiliar insecurity. As does sitting beside Daenerys. It’s not a pleasant feeling.

It’s especially strong now, as Sansa cannot take her eyes off Daenerys, but the Dragon Queen’s own gaze seems completely indifferent to her. Sansa’s drawn so many eyes her entire life. She even caught Margaery sneaking glances on occasion, including ones that reminded her of how Arya used to look whenever Septa Mordane would fuss over Sansa’s beauty. And Cersei, the most celebrated beauty in Westeros all of her life, so golden and fine that even her own brother couldn’t resist her, often looked at Sansa with poisonous envy.

But Daenerys didn’t seem remotely impressed by Sansa. Sansa knows her own looks are praised throughout the realm. Even when she was a traitor’s daughter, she was considered one of the “Great Beauties.” Tyrion said so, and clearly meant it. Surely he had said as much to Daenerys. And now Sansa wonders if the queen is even disappointed in her looks. If, when Daenerys even manages to notice her, the queen wonders what everyone else was talking about. If she wonders if the acclaim Sansa’s face has received is merely due to her rank.

And this bothers Sansa. To a startling degree. She’s not sure why she cares so much. It’s not as if her beauty has brought her good fortune. She’d been thrilled to be pushed aside for Margaery in more ways than one, and she never hoped for or expected any appreciation of her looks from her friend. Indeed, Sansa usually makes as much of an effort as she can to be appreciated for anything but her appearance.

Since Loras Tyrell, Sansa has only ever cared about Jon thinking she’s pretty.

But now she cares about this woman’s opinion as well.

And why should she? Yes, many would care about the regard of Daenerys Targaryen, but Sansa’s interest in that only extends to practical, political means. She wants and needs to maintain peace with this woman, for the sake of, well, everyone. But Sansa’s not as easily impressed with the Mother of Dragons as everyone else seems to be.

Though she’s not voiced these thoughts to anyone else, even Jon, there are many faults Sansa finds with Daenerys, on a character level. The woman seems pompous and entitled. She seems to revel in the ridiculous string of styles and titles she has bestowed upon herself, seems to assume that she’s smarter than everyone else and takes her success as proof of that, even though far more of her accomplishments are clearly the result of her dragons. She expects everyone to accept her and her winged and fiery beasts, and seems completely uninterested in acknowledging any possible danger they may— and do— pose. She bristles whenever anyone suggests this. And all of these things do not bode well for her as a ruler.

For all that she’s celebrated for being a benevolent “Breaker of Chains”, Sansa finds her supposed commitment to the freedom of others suspect. Yes, she has freed slaves in Slaver’s Bay and among the Dothraki hordes. But Sansa believes that is more a means to an end than interest in public welfare. After all, between Westeros and Meereen, there are numerous cities, communities, and regions that still enslave people. Despite her supposed devotion to freedom and clear means to do so, Daenerys has not shown any sign in freeing all of them. No, she passed over all those in bondage to come to Westeros, which does not practice slavery. And she did that without knowing of the White Walkers or any other reason that Westeros might be a more urgent priority than the slaves of Tyrosh, Myr, and such.

And speaking of the White Walkers, the way Daenerys seems to dangle her support against them infuriated Sansa as well. Daenerys wants Jon to bend the knee. She’s stalled an official commitment to ending this scourge for a long while. First with skepticism, making Jon journey Beyond the Wall to fetch her “proof” despite the numerous witnesses to this she’d already been supplied. Now, though she’s seen wights for herself, she still has not promised to ally with them. Her apparent reluctance to put relatively insignificant matters of fealty and titles aside, at least until anyone could be sure that there’d even be a Westeros left, bothers Sansa.

This queen has been here two weeks “negotiating” the obvious, eating their food, taking up space, and diminishing their stores and coffers with her presence and that of her retinue. And she’s shown no sign of humility or interest in offering anything in exchange. She has come not to aid her people and negotiate, but to force submission and steal Jon away to the South to secure her throne.

Daenerys is not the altruistic mother figure she pretends to be. She is not their savior. But she wants them to think she is. She may even believe it. Sansa suspects her guest has deluded herself into believing so.

Despite the woman’s obvious intelligence and long list of accomplishments, there’s much about her apparent entitlement that greatly reminds Sansa of her naivete when she first journeyed South. She wonders if Daenerys realizes or appreciates the full ramifications of her actions. If she’s willing to realize and appreciate them.

She’s in many ways the direct opposite of Jon, the person Sansa admires, believes in, and loves most. And yet…

Sansa can’t hate her. She’s a woman who has certainly learned to hate.

Despite all her fury, her negative observations and conclusions about this person, she wants… She wants Daenerys to learn. To actually be all that she professes to be. She still admires the woman.

She stifles these feelings, both out of confusion and a knowledge of her duty to serve her people. She makes herself play the Game with Daenerys, challenge the woman, stand against her in many respects. But her reluctance to do so grows every day.

It makes no sense. Not even her feelings for Jon confused her this much, and they’d been raised as siblings.

Sansa realizes that she’s been staring a bit too long, and lowers her head to look at her lap, as if praying. Daenerys’s breathing had relaxed since she sat, but there’s a momentary spike in volume when Sansa does this.

The Lady of Winterfell feels those violet eyes on her. She traces the weave of her woolen skirts, determined not to betray herself. What does she see?

She suspects, hopes, that Daenerys sees a person worth her attention and respect. As more than the delicate girl Sansa’s been perceived as her whole life. Perhaps that’s what this whole visit is about. Daenerys now understands the scope of her influence and is ready to negotiate with her as well.

Jon isn’t the whole of the North. He’s half of it. Sansa is the other half. Daenerys needs Sansa as much as she needs Jon, as would anyone wishing to gain any sort of ground north Shoreham. Not that Sansa’s ever gone out of her way to reveal that. It usually suited their purposes for people to continue to see Sansa as little more than a doted-upon, privileged supporter and symbolic figurehead. She is usually more effective when underestimated and ignored. Jon represents the North’s strength to outside eyes, not her.

But now… things have reached a point where she needs to do more with Daenerys than bat her eyelashes and secretly root out all that lay beneath the image. She needs to make Daenerys understand her true role, nature, capabilities.

And she wants to, for the first time in a long while. She’s not sure why.

There’s more silence. Sansa purposely mouths some words silently, as if praying, reciting something. She affects a point of completion, and only then raises her head and meets Daenerys’s gaze.

But the ocular contact is only momentary. Daenerys breaks it, then clears her throat.

“It’s become apparent to me that I ought to have sought you out well before this, Princess Sansa.”

Something strikes the Lady of Winterfell. Daenerys, whenever forced by custom to refer to Jon by his title, hesitates. But she does not do so in addressing Sansa as Princess. And this is despite there are no people around to judge either woman on their courtesies.

“Why is that, Queen Daenerys?”

The Mother of Dragons licks her lips. An odd urge seizes Sansa to tell her not to, that her lips will only become more chapped if she does. But she suppresses it.

“I’m not sure where to start, really. I have underestimated your power, your abilities, and your character, it seems. Though I suspect you intended me to.”

“Have you? What was your initial impression of me?”

“I thought you were sweet and lovely, and easy to adore.”

“You’re the one being sweet, Your Grace,” Sansa doesn’t have to force the blush that rises to her cheeks.

“I rarely get the opportunity to.”

There’s an awkward pause. “To what, Your Grace?”

Now Daenerys blushes. “To be sweet. I can be benevolent. And noble. And attractive. But rarely do I get to be sweet.”

“Oh. Well.” Sansa swallows. Unable to construct a response beyond that, she switches the direction of the conversation. “So if this glowing summation was your initial impression of me, then how is it that you underestimated me?”

“I didn’t see the calculating mind and iron will underneath. I saw all the stereotypical feminine graces, and nothing more. I didn’t realize that Jon’s admiration for you was born as much from the head as the heart.”

“Jon’s admiration?” Sansa lets slip. She blushes further. She knows Jon loves her— god, does she. And she knows Jon respects her, which she relishes. But admire? Admiration implied a dash of aspiration. What qualities did she possess that Jon needed to aspire to? That her cousin didn’t already have in abundance? Sure, she knows herself to be more sensible in some ways, but she never thought the nature of her own insight was something her honorable cousin would admire. Daenerys has identified it correctly— Sansa is calculating. And she is willing to take a cold, unsentimental stance on something when she has to. Rickon is the prime example of this. She foresaw his fate and forced her love and vain hope for him aside to see the situation for what it really was, and act accordingly. But Jon did not, could not. Sansa considered this to be the most brutal, hideous virtue she possessed. She hates herself for this as much as she clings to it. But Jon couldn’t admire her for that. So what else is there? In pretty much all other areas, Jon matches her, surpasses her, or compensates for whatever talent she has with an equivalent or greater skill or virtue. It’s inconceivable to her that Jon could do anything more than accept and respect her. Admire her? No. She admires him.

“I have yet to have a conversation with him where he doesn’t mention you with the greatest reverence. He wonders what you’d say or think. Or brings up your opinions. Or brags of your abilities and qualities. Tells stories of your triumphs, small and large. Everything from a funny joke you once made to you saving him and his army from the Boltons. You’re his idol.”

Sansa collects herself as quickly as she can. She smiles. “That goes both ways.”

“Perhaps that’s what makes you two such a formidable team,” Daenerys remarks, “You are lucky. Both of you. I wish I had what you have.”

Sansa believes this. She knows Daenerys is lonely. Far more lonely than most people would ever fathom, given the acclaim this woman receives.

“I’d do anything for him,” Sansa says, trying to ignore her aching heart, “I’d do anything for my family. For Jon. For Bran. For Arya.”

Daenerys takes a deep breath. “That’s beautiful.”

“And I will protect us with every skill I have. From anyone who seeks to separate or harm us.” Sansa’s conviction overrides her odd empathy for Daenerys. “Now that we are back here, in our home, where we belong again, I will not let anyone or anything ruin that.”

Something remarkable happens. The Mother of Dragons flinches, and Sansa suspects she’s the first person to see this woman do such a thing in a very, very long time.

Daenerys didn’t even look this vulnerable when she was struggling through the snow. But now she appears almost wounded. “I don’t want to ruin that.”

“I believe that,” Sansa says bitterly, “But even if you’d rather not, I fear you might be willing to do it for your own gain. Your determination to regain all that your father lost and more is as potent as anything I’ve ever seen. I doubt anyone could want anything as much as you want to rule all of Westeros.”

“You’re wrong. There is something that I want even more than that.”

“And what is that?”

Daenerys hesitates, then looks away. “I don’t think I should tell you.”

“That’s a matter of perspective. It would likely benefit me greatly to know. Though I admit that would put you at a disadvantage.”

The Dragon queen stiffens, then meets Sansa’s gaze, fire in her eyes. “I know something you want just as much. Jon.”

It takes all of Sansa’s skill not to betray herself. She waits a beat, then says as confidently as she can, “I want to keep Jon here as much as anything. And Arya. And Bran.”

“That’s not what I mean.”

“Your meaning is irrelevant.”

“Is it? It isn’t to me. It’s a matter of perspective.”

“Yours seems a bit skewed. I suppose it’s to be expected. You’re a Targaryen, and used to such things. But I am not.”

Daenerys gets to her feet. “I am a Targaryen. A conqueror. And if you’re not careful, I can destroy everything you love and care for.”

Sansa stands as well now, taking full advantage in the several inches she has over the queen. “Perhaps, but if you were to, there is no way it wouldn’t become your greatest, most painful regret. I guarantee that.”

“Are you threatening me?”

“You’re threatening me. I’m merely informing you of why following through on such a thing would be unwise.”

At this moment, Sansa is almost able to hate this woman. And yet, she can’t. And she has no idea why.

The two women glare at each other. It’s as powerful an exchange as any Sansa’s experienced.

“I come in good faith, Princess, don’t spoil that.”

“You come in something, Queen, but I’m not sure if I’d call it good faith. I’m sure you have a very high opinion of your intentions. But the rest of us don’t. This is a place where being a ‘conqueror’ is something to lament, not boast.”

“Says the woman who has laid claim to half the continent.”

“Incorrectly says the woman who lays claim to all of it, against the wishes of half its people.”

“You think you speak for the people?”

“I speak for my people. And I’m more qualified to do so than you are to speak for anyone in Westeros. This half, or the other.”

“They declared Jon their king, not you.”

Sansa almost winces. Almost. “They didn’t declare you anything, either. And if Jon weren’t here, who do you think they’d follow? Who have they followed? Who does their king follow? Don’t underestimate me again, Daenerys Targaryen.”

“My dragons shall—”

“—Your dragons _may_ —” Sansa interrupts. “May do many things. Some that may earn you some popularity. Some that may do the opposite. Can you be sure that they truly shall do the former?”

Daenerys grits her teeth. “You better hope they do, Stark.”

“Oh, I do. I truly do. I just don’t think either of us should count on it.” Sansa clears her throat then, and raises her hood once more. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have a meeting. There are many demands on my time. I’m sure you can sympathize. Enjoy the rest of your visit to Winterfell. And don’t hesitate to call upon me should you wish to speak again.”

She flees.


End file.
